The Size of Weather
by Zaedah
Summary: The Pattern’s not in the clouds, Liv. It’s down here where evil rides in limos.


_Because it's 9 pm on a Tuesday, I submit this in place of a ~sniff~ episode..._

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**The Size of Weather**

"How big will the storm be?"

I gaze up at the darkening clouds hurrying toward each other under the 'safety in numbers' theory and wonder what part of my sarcasm has gotten me mistaken for God? She's looking so earnest as she asks, the delicate expression churning latent protective cells in my blood. But I have no answer because _one_: I don't work for the National Weather Service and _two_: even if I did, when are they ever right? So it leads me to the conclusion that I'm not meant to respond. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Hold a tape measure up to the sky?

Olivia has her face upturned, letting the first drops strike her cheek. There's something angelically beautiful in this picture and I resist the urge to step my unworthy soul out of it. I want to watch the moisture run down her neck because it'll cure my insomnia for days.

The storm, still an infant crawling about in the expanse, rumbles in impatient hunger. An open field spans the four directions and I'm reconsidering the wisdom of standing in defiance of common sense. Babies get cranky, after all. Plus, this jacket is new. I may be a guy but I'm a guy who prefers indoor showers. I can't turn a knob to shut off Mother Nature.

Olivia's not moving, staring down a lightening bolt with that alpha chick superiority that'll only earn an unflattering electrocution.

"How big?" She repeats as the wind whips her hair into a stinging weapon.

To the detriment of my fabled IQ, I arrive late to the understanding. But I get there all the same. She's not talking about the weather. That I took it literally suggests too many hours spent with Walter. We're in this field for a reason, mostly involving the intricate crop circle mapped out with crispy bodies. This is our storm; unannounced, unpredicted and ill-timed. This day began as an elusive day off from crime fighting. And I'd nearly had Olivia talked into spending it… well, not 'together,' because we don't do that. But had a pub address been given with an estimated time, there might have been some oxygen sharing.

And her mouth is open for a third helping of repetition. How big.

"Look," I gesture to the frowning heavens. "We don't have to stand _in _it to decide _about_ it, do we?"

The celestial infant rolls over, smacking a cloud into releasing its load. The line of rain ignores the posted speed limit, heading our way with the curses of the crime scene crew preceding it. The evidence is about to wash away but Olivia wants her ridiculous question answered. I know this because she's got my arm in a grip that stirs envy in the vice factory.

"They won't get deader," she tells me with a wave to the frantic tarp-covering efforts. "We're getting buried in this."

"No, we're getting drenched in this." I have to raise my voice to lozenge level to be heard over the now screaming infant. And I won't ponder why yelling at her feels so good.

Frustration lands with a thick tree branch, the storm settling nicely over our rain-splattered heads. My arm is freed because she can't step back and cling at the same time.

"You don't see the metaphor here?"

Olivia's hand shoots skyward and I realize a metal bracelet isn't a half-bad conductor. Figures this would be the one day she accessorizes. I lower her arm, unconcerned with the ass-kicking she could inflict for the presumption. We're apparently scheduled to die out here anyway.

"I can't think metaphorically with God spitting on us."

Me and my soaked jeans walk away, leaving her to the wet pantsuit contest. The dancing treetops wave goodbye, somewhat against their will, and I reach the deep-fried ground zero body when I hear her shout.

"It has to be over soon!"

God's storm or ours? I don't want to know. I don't want to care. I don't want to turn. But of course I do. And I trudge back with ruined boots and twenty pounds of denim weighing me down. The customarily scant make-up is gone now and I think that not all the moisture on her face came from above. She's scanning the gray as though the drops of rain might spell something on their way down.

"The Pattern's not in the clouds, Liv. It's down here where evil rides in limos."

Amidst the jarring thunder, a screaming took flight, bringing a flock with it. Behind us, agents dropped with thuds softened by corn husks and mud. This is seemingly unimportant because, as I'm well aware, she still seeks an answer.

"How big will the storm be?"

For lack of a multitude of decent qualities, I merely shrug. "Tape measure says big enough."

The wind's growing up to be a bully and I grab her arm again, unsteady anchor that I am. People have likely died during our time debating a weather metaphor, but the screeching of new victims, her comrades, is dulled by the deluge. Olivia sags a bit, shoulders falling in the face of something not impressed with her badge. Reddened eyes drop to mid-priced leather shoes coated in earthen sludge. She's going to speak. I wish she'd stop doing that.

"I can't stand in this mess alone."

I've never actually struck a lady before but I can't blame the accusing tone on the storm alone.

"What am I? Invisible?"

Her hand rises to my jacket and, in utter futileness, tries to brush off the rain. "No. Just soggy."

"Your fault."

I give her a shove to break the start of one of those uncomfortable moments where I end up telling her I care and other such drivel. Truth is like this storm; a drop becomes a drowning. And I left my life raft in my other pants.

The sky baby's tantrum leaves it yawning to a calm and I pull Olivia from the field, under no illusion that she's going because I want her to. The dripping cavalry waits with reeking bodies that Walter will want to poke, sniff and possibly taste. I'd settle for dry clothes, warm pizza and cold beer. Just before Olivia climbs into the truck, she casts an eye to the passing clouds, which are drifting off to undoubtedly wash the UST from some other non-couple. The poor sods can choke on it with a side of her unanswerable questions.

But she's right; the storm should be measured. At least to see how far off the silver lining is.


End file.
